My experiences with horses have not really been much satisfactory. The first time I went horseriding was in Sant Cugat, near my town, which is actually quite close to Barcelona. I was with a group of friends. The horses were coming back after the first afternoon ride, where another group of people had just been practicing with a trainer before our turn came. One of my friends, Miriam, suddenly shouted: “Look Anna, you will get that horse!” It was the only one nobody was riding and its saddle was loose and hanging. None of my friends would dare to ride it and so I was given Diablo, scary name. That was the beginning, but the animal turned out to be very peaceful. All it was doing was eating grass and stopping constantly, which began to bore me, so I let the bridles loose for a moment of distraction and that was a mistake for the horse suddenly started to run and I could not take control of it. Luckily the trainer came to me on his horse and helped me hold the bridles again. He did this with what I found was a rather mocking face. Well, sorry man, nobody is perfect, I thought, but I only said: “Thank you.”
The second time I went for a horseride was in Mexico with a boy who would not be older than twelve. He would put tourists like you on the back of his horse. Those rides would give the boy enough money to pay for food and basic schooling. He would pull a rope the horse was tied to and walk next to you all the way. Not a scary experience because I simply sat on the horse and we three moved very slowly. The fright began when we started to cross the road. The boy had released the rope just a minute ago walking behind me. Why he had done this is something I ignore. The only thing I know is that the horse stopped in the middle of the road and a car was coming closer very fast. I thought there were only three possibilities:
a- The car would stop in time.
b- The horse and I would be run over and, if this were the case, I would presumably be the one to get the most injuries and perhaps I would not even survive the accident.
c- The boy would grab the rope in time and get me and the horse off the road.
C is what happened.
So far for horseriding. Here I am, instead, riding my bicycle, the iron horse. Or, if it has to be something more similar to a horse then this precious wooden children toy the author of the short story and blog you are reading, Marta, is riding in the photograph above. Doesn’t she look cute on it although, well… Perhaps I should try real horseriding once more and hope for a more relaxing ride without distractions or dangerous roads. As for my uncle Alfred, he never went horseriding but betted once on a horse called Gandul, which means Lazy in Catalan. As you can imagine that horse never won the race.
© April 2018 Marta Pombo Sallés